They had five minutes left to get clear.
Reacher pointed at the vehicles and said, “See how they’re lined up? One guy came here directly in the van. The others went to the clerk’s house. Roused him. And made him drive back in his VW because there would be no room in the car. Which could help us. Wait here a minute.”
Reacher went back inside and crossed to the counter. He checked the kid’s pajamas. Found a key on a rabbit’s foot fob. He fished a wallet out of the pillowcase. Took out all the cash and slipped it into the kid’s pocket. Then he tore a page out of the ledger, grabbed a pen off the shelf, and wrote: Will return the bus. Don’t report it stolen. More $ to come. Ambrose Burnside.
They had three minutes left.
Reacher hurried outside and tossed the key to Hannah. He said, “The cops will be looking for Sam’s truck. See if you can get the VW to start. Better to use it instead.” Then he looped around to the rear of the van. Its door was unlocked. The walls and floor of the cargo area had been boarded up with plywood to protect the paint. Two gurneys were stacked on each other at the right-hand side. They were folded down and secured with elastic straps. Next to them was a black plastic trash bag. Reacher looked inside. It was full of medics’ uniforms. There was nothing he could use, so Reacher moved on to the front of the vehicle. He went to the passenger side and opened the glove box. There were two pieces of paper inside. The insurance and registration documents. Reacher checked the details. He was hoping for a corporate name he hadn’t seen before. A new thread to pull in whatever illegitimate financial tapestry Angela St. Vrain had been talking to Sam Roth about. But Reacher was out of luck. The papers listed the vehicle’s owner as the Minerva Correctional Corporation, with an address in Delaware. Reacher immediately thought, Tax avoidance, but he couldn’t see a connection to murder.
Two minutes left.
Reacher heard the VW rattle into life. He scanned the rest of the van’s cab. It was clean and empty. Then he stepped back to slam the door and spotted something white peeking out from under the passenger seat. It was the corner of an envelope. It must have slipped off the dashboard while the van was moving and slid back there. Reacher fished it out. It was standard letter size. Thin, like it only had a single piece of paper inside. And it was addressed to Danny Peel. The same name that had been on the envelope in Angela St. Vrain’s purse. The same address. But different handwriting. Reacher was confident about that.
* * *
—
Bruno Hix was already the world’s greatest living chat-show host, but the extravaganza that was about to go live was destined to cement his status as an all-time legend of broadcasting. It was going to feature the most stars ever interviewed in a single event. It would be the most expensive eight hours of television ever made. It was being filmed in the middle of the Mediterranean, on the deck of his yacht. The audience was already in place. A thousand people divided between less luxurious ships, moored on all four sides. He had a drink in his hand. The cameras were rolling. But his guests hadn’t showed up. And somehow he was naked. His hair was falling out. His skin—
Hix’s phone rang. His eyes snapped open. He was sweating. He threw back the comforter and lay for a moment, trying to control his breathing. Then he answered the call. It was Brockman again.
Hix said, “Talk to me.”
The line was silent for a moment. Then Brockman said, “He’s on the loose again.”
“Who? Reacher?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman?”
“Her too.”
“Harold screwed up?”
“Harold’s dead. Reacher literally crushed him.”
“Harold. Second best again. Maybe we should put that on his gravestone. What about our other guys?”
“They’re hurt. But alive.”
“Where did Reacher go?”
“They don’t know. Moseley’s guys are searching for him.”
“OK. Keep me posted.”
“Bruno? I’ve been thinking. About tomorrow. I hate to say this. You know I’ve been against making any changes, right from the start. But maybe the others were right. With Reacher running around out there, maybe the full ceremony isn’t the smart way to go. Maybe it’s time we switched to Plan B.”
“We don’t have a Plan B. We’ve never needed one.”
“Maybe it’s time to think of one. We can’t postpone because of the court order but the ceremony isn’t important. Getting our guy released on time is all that matters. We could put out a statement. Say he was too traumatized to go through with the publicity.”